Berserker, Spurlock rose, head down, and charged. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. He listened to the thunder of the fall now mingling with the roar of the blast; and, driven almost frantic by what he heard and saw, he pushed with all his force against the stone. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible.
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